


Spit, Don't Swallow

by Vulgarweed



Series: The Bone Fiddle [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: #noshameficathon, AU, Appalachia, Chewing Tobacco, Competition, Historical - 1970s, M/M, No shame, Oral Sex, Smokeless Tobacco Products, Spit Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for earlgreytea68's No Shame ficathon. Set in the Appalachian!AU-verse of <i>The Bone Fiddle</i>. Much to the shock of native-born West Virginian John, city slicker Sherlock can beat him in at least one kind of target shooting. Further experimentation with oral fixation ensues.</p><p>That's right. Chewing tobacco kink. Sloppy, slurpy spitting with lots of brown stains all over. You were warned.</p><p>I probably <i>should</i> be ashamed. But I'm not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spit, Don't Swallow

John had always had a competitive streak, and for the most part, he hadn't been treated too badly by it. Picked up a few bruises on his body and his pride over the years, lost a little money here and there, learned a hard lesson or two – but nothing that really took a toll on his soul. Of course, like everything else in his life, that was all before he met Sherlock Holmes. There was never much point in competing with _him_ \-- which made it all the more necessary to try and try and try. No matter how ridiculous the field of battle.

“Dang,” John said in frustrated admiration as Sherlock nailed the target. Again. From a ridiculous distance.

“There's no call to feel your masculinity impugned, John,” Sherlock said with a spectacularly smug false sympathy. “Just because your marksmanship with a gun far exceeds mine, doesn't mean your aim is always truer with all projectile weapons.”

“It ain't the aim, it's the distance. And you're managing to pull this off while you're talkin' like the overeducated city slicker you are at heart.”

“I think you'll find my skill in this regard has little to do with education,” Sherlock said, his enunciation only slightly impaired by the thick wad of chewing tobacco wedged up against his molars. “And everything to do with practice.”

“Practice?” John said incredulously, spitting a bit inadvertently from the tangy, stinging-molasses-tasting wetness of his own chunk of chaw. “This is just show-offy redneck stuff. Doesn't really seem your style.”

“I once temporarily blinded a man who was taking aim to shoot me,” Sherlock said, planting a little brown splurt precisely between John's feet.

“You're not kiddin', are you?” John said, staring at him in growing horror. _God, there were so many times we could have lost each other before we ever even met._

“I don't _kid.”_ Sherlock said, dead serious even with a little brown trickle in the corner of his sinful mouth.

“You don't do anything halfway.”

“I've written a monograph on over 200 different types of tobacco spit. In this part of the country, the practice is widespread enough to make that knowledge useful. You yourself used to chew a great deal more in your youth than you do now, although you still enjoy it from time to time. You made the change to take your nicotine by smoking cigarettes because chewing was looked down upon in medical school – not so much for its harmful health effects, but because it spoke so loudly of working-class rural origins. A crass habit. A vulgar weed. Cigarettes were also far more commonly available in Vietnam. Although, I do believe, you did partake of betel, a chewing leaf popular in Southeast Asia for centuries for its mild stimulant effects? Yes. You did. You didn't care for it, because it was the taste of Southern American tobacco specifically that you missed.”

“Well, that and it turned my teeth red. You're amazing, you know that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “You tell me, repeatedly, in every synonym available in the English language. And sometimes, very loudly.”

Sherlock's smile was as hypnotic as ever, despite the brown tint between his sharp, slightly crooked, irresistible teeth. Was he starting to swagger closer to John? He was. Was John drawn towards him ever so slowly but inexorably like mountains moving? He was.

“Alright,” John said. “The aim I get, I really do. But the _distance._ The _force._ That last shot was almost twenty-five feet, that's insane.”

“Volume, John,” Sherlock said. This close, John could hear the moist sloshing in Sherlock's mouth as he gathered ammo for another shot. Sherlock's throat worked and his cheeks twitched and his full pink lips pursed, and he aimed right over John's shoulder, straight onto the paper target fifteen feet away. He'd been a little distracted; this one hit a little low of the mark. 

That accomplished, Sherlock leaned closer to John and began to speak again, and John earnestly wished he had not, as the gathering spittle in his own mouth was going to need release soon, and it couldn't all be blamed on the chew. “I let my saliva flow freely and I'm not afraid to reach further down into my throat for all the moisture I can acquire. I have very good control over my gag reflex, as you are intimately aware, and I'm sure you've also noticed that my mouth never lacks for lubrication when I'm enticing you to fuck me there as hard as you can.”

“Are you telling me,” John stammered, “that you're good at spittin' tobacco . . . because you're good at giving head?”

“The skills don't _necessarily_ correlate,” Sherlock said smugly. “Your target spitting is frankly dismal, but I've never had any complaints . . . when you pleasure me with your mouth.”

 _Fuck,_ John thought, _his voice just dropped an octave and my pants are three sizes too tight, and I have to spit right fucking now._ He made a half-turn away from Sherlock and dropped a sizable puddle in the black spring dirt.

“Wasteful,” Sherlock said. “That had enough weight you could have probably shot it at least ten feet.”

John's eyes narrowed, and he turned to advance on Sherlock this time. “Maybe we should have another kind of shootin' contest. Not spit. A lot lower.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, his lips forming a wicked shape. “That is intriguing. For distance or aim or both?”

“Both,” John said. “I was in the Army.”

“Yes, and you were so very heterosexual, weren't you? You and all your buddies.”

“A whole hooch full of cock, Sherlock,” John said, trying not to dribble. “You would have loved it.”

Sherlock aimed yet another spitbomb over John's shoulder, but this one wasn't meant to impress and he clearly had little interest in the result. John gasped as Sherlock lunged forward and slid his hands into John's back pockets, kneading firmly at John's ass through the worn denim, pulling him close. “I would always gravitate towards my favorite,” he promised.

God, Sherlock was _obscene,_ his eyes darkened and opened, his lips slick and slack enough to let a little stream of brown juice trail out of the corner of his mouth in a completely unselfconscious way, down his chin, and God help him, John had never once thought of doing this when he had tobacco in his mouth – or when someone else did - but . . . 

“The chew gives a nice tingle, doesn't it?” Sherlock purred, wetly. “The mucous membranes in the mouth are very susceptible. I wonder what it would feel like . . .”

“No, Sherlock,” John gasped, drooling slightly and slurping up his own spit. “I ain't gonna have a plug of chaw and your cock in my mouth at the same time. Not unless you want my lunch all over your lap.”

“Spit, don't swallow,” Sherlock said, deep into John's ear.

“Not the way I usually like it,” John said, rising up to the challenge and aiming his voice at Sherlock's ear, so close to his mouth if he stood up on his toes, wreathed in those dark sunlit curls.

 _Oh, to hell with it,_ John thought as he saw Sherlock's mouth lowering towards his. He reached up and took it. Lips on lips, open, dripping wet. Taste of Sherlock's Beech-Nut different from his own Levi Garrett; sweeter, lighter – the melding of two tobacco flavors, similar but not alike. A fountain that couldn't be contained; the seal of their mouths imperfect, wetness escaping them both, brown and dripping. Sherlock's tongue seeking its way to his; the meeting like two snakes touching, and in that steamy smokey bayou, a nudging at the wad of leaves against John's gum that _wasn't his own._

Sherlock was licking the tobacco in John's mouth, and that should not be knee-meltingly erotic, but it _was,_ and John's moan was all the more pathetic for being slightly bubbly. And they were exchanging juice between them, and that was . . . 

Sherlock's deft fingers were working John's belt buckle open, and John was clutching at Sherlock's back, pulling his shirt up and digging fingers into the lean muscle on the sides of his spine, trying to catch him. John jerked one hand up into Sherlock's hair to hold his mouth still while he tried to pull the kiss deeper. Sherlock was dodging him a little, coyly, leaning back as his hand worked John's fly open and pulled his throbbing cock free. Sherlock finally escaped John's kiss entirely and slithered to his knees.

“Oh God,” John said, looking down, “You're gonna do it. You have no shame.”

That quizzical wrinkle Sherlock got in his forehead was so incongruous with his swollen, stained lips and his lust-widened pupils. “No, of course not. Why would I be ashamed?”

“Just . . . be careful . . . don't . . .” John said, losing all hope of communicating in words as that hot mouth took him in, soft and tight and hot as always; so much wetter than usual. John closed his eyes for a moment and flailed out behind him for the convenient tree to lean against. Lord knows he wasn't gonna make it long standing without help. He looked down, and that was a mistake, the wild bounce of Sherlock's curls and the dark knit of his brow and the hollowing of his cheeks and the stretch of his lips . . . and oh God, when Sherlock pulled back, he left a brown stain down John's shaft.

That should _not_ be so fucking sexy that John had to close his eyes to not come on the spot. Not thinking, shaking, useless, he let his head fall back against the tree. And as his mouth slackened, he began to dribble again.

Sherlock suddenly stopped and pulled back, John's cock in his hand. “Do. Not. Drool. In My. Hair. Please.”

“Oh fuck sorry,” John said and reached into his mouth and pulled the wad out and hurled it over Sherlock's head, a good ten feet, and then he could just relax and concentrate.

Sherlock gave a little hum and went back to work, with long, careful strokes, fluttering his tongue, tugging his lower lip across the sensitive vein on the underside of John's cock again and again, changing his suction level with each pull, and occasionally drawing aside to . . . spit on the ground.

Sherlock _never_ spat when he did this. He'd explained it before – spitting disgusted him; the evidence would still be there outside of his mouth – on the sheets, on the ground, on the Kleenex, wherever he put it. Far better to swallow and be done with it. But he was going to this time, wasn't he? He'd have to, unless he could separate . . .

_Don't think. Feel._

Oh, John was feeling all right, but the anticipation – oh god, he wouldn't last long, would he?

Sherlock wouldn't dare to swallow. He just wouldn't. Tobacco juice would go with it, and maybe even the plug, and that would be – he would _know_ that would be bad, right?

Sherlock's hand was toying with John's balls now, light tugs, firm caresses, precise squeezes. John's hand tightened in Sherlock's hair, pulling him down on his cock - _he likes that, he really likes it, he's said so, so many times . . ._ and Sherlock's deep vibrating moan deep into the tissue of his dick just confirmed it. Just a few hard, sharp thrusts into that delicious tunnel and John was gone, breathless and jerking helplessly, feeling those violently blissful spurts deep into Sherlock's mouth.

He watched, mesmerized, feeling Sherlock hold his throat tight as the last few jets landed on his tongue.

Then Sherlock pulled away, looked up into John's eyes with a piercing gaze, and spit out an absolutely revolting gob of a thick light-brown substance. It lay there, gleaming and unholy in the sunlight.

Sherlock wiped his mouth with his sleeve and gazed at it in admiration, seeming to have lost all interest in John for the moment. “Fascinating,” he said. “I don't think there's ever been _any_ research done on the chemical reactions between tobacco juice, saliva, and semen. What an amazing individual signature that is.”

John slumped down to a squat against the tree, jeans still down around his knees. “And . . . I suppose . . . you'll need a lot of different samples? For science?”

“Of course.”

John leaned his head back against the tree. He was feeling a little dizzy. “So what you really want is a gay baseball team.”

It actually seemed to take Sherlock a moment to get the joke. Then he laughed, wiping his mouth again. “Well, to ensure a real diversity of sample sizes . . .”

“Yeah, just forget about the data collection for a moment,” John said, leaning forward on his knees. He just managed to miss the little landmines of spittle on the ground; Sherlock saw where this was going, and clearly he liked it, because John usually had more of a struggle to pin him to the ground.

“Ah, you got rid of yours,” Sherlock said with regret. “Would you?”

“Would you stop fixating on the damn spit?”

But of course you can't unthink something once you've thought it, and John was thinking like crazy as he did what Sherlock asked, taking just a tiny little pinch of loose leaf out of the pocket of his jeans that still hung just below his bare ass smiling boldly at the spring sun. Nicotine was starting to make his hands shake a little, or maybe it was all just lust for the man spread out under him, the pristine white skin peeping from between the gaps between the buttons that his too-tight shirt made, right up until John went at those buttons one by one.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed with a dark little smile. “I see what you want to do. Yes.”

“Now, really, you can read my mind now?”

“I can read your body language clear as a book, John. I can see what makes your eyes go dark, what makes you lick your lips when you look at me.”

“That so?” John said, undoing Sherlock's belt. Lazy bastard, letting him doing all the work, just purring a little bit deep in his throat as John palmed the hard ridge tenting his tight pants, as he opened the fly and worked them down his thighs, and they were so tight Sherlock had to squirm and shimmy to help, and then John just _had_ to grope and grab, firm strokes, and hot kisses pressed in a zig-zag line from side to side up the seam of Sherlock's thighs.

There was only a little chaw in John's mouth, just barely enough to generate anything at all, but he let a little spit go, down over Sherlock's downy hairs, into the crease between his thighs, disappearing there, and Sherlock moaned and shivered at the wet tickle of it. With his hand in John's hair, he pulled back up.

“You like to see me dirty, don't you, John?” he said. “It charms you that I'm vain. That I'm fastidious. You want to mark me and mess me up. You want to defile me. Do it.”

Shuddering, John did. Small drops of spit, not terribly dark brown, mostly saliva, but enough to stain. On the white of Sherlock's throat and stomach. On the pink peaks of his nipples. In the dark bristle of the fine hair down his belly. In the hollows of his hips. John followed the progress of the dripping spots with his tongue everywhere they fell, licking and sucking and smearing.

Sherlock was making such encouraging sounds, John spat a few more times – over the flushed, slick head of Sherlock's cock, into the curling dark hairs around his balls, a few more little drops into the creases of hip and thigh. He pulled Sherlock's pants down further to spread his legs a little and sucked on his own fingers to press them damp against the quivering clench of Sherlock's hole, savoring the quiet, hungry grunting sound Sherlock made as he pushed one fingertip through, just a little way.

Sherlock's hips began to rise and roll against his pushes, and arched sharply off the ground when John guided Sherlock's cock to his mouth. He let a little spit drench the head with his tongue, and then smiled and teased it with his lips.

Sherlock's hands clenched in the grass, and then moved to John's head. John hoped the tiny bit of tobacco would stay right where it was, nestled deep between cheek and gum, and took as much of Sherlock's long dick into his mouth as he could, hollowing his cheeks to suck hard, moving his finger just a few inches inside Sherlock, back and forth and round and round, in counterpoint. _Oh,_ Sherlock was just about ready to go, John could tell by his sharp gasps and his wheezy cries. Oh, but then he had to talk too, of course he did.

“John . . . yes, like that, yeah, suck me . . . fuck me . . . it _burns,_ John, I can _feel_ it, it's so good, please, stop, I'm going to . . . don't stop . . .”

John didn't stop, and when Sherlock jerked violently and shouted and nearly jammed himself all the way down John's throat as his ass clenched around John's finger and his cock spurted wet and hot in John's mouth, John just hummed to himself, happily, _mm-hmmm love, you like it don't you mmm-hmmm, oh thank God I'm not gonna swallow that tobacco and yak all over him._

When he had swallowed everything he should and nothing he shouldn't, and Sherlock's quavering had settled, John crawled right back up Sherlock's body and made a show of spitting his wad out. Near Sherlock's hair, but certainly not in it.

Sherlock stroked his cheek with a shocking tenderness. “You're so good to me, John. Willing to try so many things.”

“I'm gonna try gettin' you into a bath and fillin' your pretty mouth up with toothpaste next,” John said, lowering his head for the most unclean kiss of his life.

“It'll have to wait until Lestrade's said what he has to say,” Sherlock said. “He's waiting for us down at the house. Heard his car.”

“What?” John barked, yanking his pants up and trying to get Sherlock decent, always a Sisyphean task. “Why didn't you say something? He could've come up here! Aw, shit, my truck's there, and . . .”

“He knows you live with me, John.”

“Okay, but he don't know that we -” John gestured at their bodies, still so sweetly close, him lying half on top of Sherlock, whose relaxed dick still lounged shamelessly outside his jeans.

“He's only a partial idiot, John, not a complete one. Has it occurred to you that he just might not care?”

“It had, but that's a big risk, don't you think?”

Sherlock shrugged, and took his time about getting himself into a state fit for general audiences. “A calculated one, of course. I always calculate my risks. But he won't be put off for long; I left him a few beers in the cooler on the porch. We should have some too if you're concerned about the smell of our breath – as well you should be. He chews too, so you should offer him some.”

“What are you suggesting?” John said with a little leer.

“I surmise that he wouldn't care, not that he would want to join us,” Sherlock said, laughing.

 _He calculates his risks well, at least,_ John thought. And as they walked down the hill, he kept his left hand in Sherlock's right back pocket, fondling that firm round cheek, until the last possible second.


End file.
